Chapter 4
Sal watched as the beautiful woman twisted her head and neck, lifting her brow in concentration. Madonna mia, was she actually trying to see her own eyebrow arch? The woman was adorable. Adorable, and sexy as hell.
The way she moved—those long, slender legs shifting beneath the table, her skirt pulling just slightly higher—it was maddening. And dangerous. And yes, he was going to hell for noticing the daughter of his enemy that way.
Did he care? Not even a little.
Okay, maybe a little. Catarina Bianchi was untouchable. A daughter. A rival’s jewel. Adorably untouchable.
She tilted her head suddenly. “Why are men such pigs about sex?” she blurted.
Sal nearly choked on his scotch. It took him a moment to process her words. Catarina Bianchi—the prim little princess of Enrico Bianchi—had just used the word sex in the middle of a crowded bar.
“I’m…uh…not sure what you mean.” He tossed back the rest of his drink, as if the fire could steady him.
“Well, for instance—” she fumbled in her purse, tugging out her phone with the focus of a tipsy surgeon. Her tongue peeked out adorably as she tapped the screen, then spun it around with a triumphant flourish. “Case in point.”
Sal’s gaze slid to her lips—plump, soft, flushed pink now that her lipstick had faded. For one reckless heartbeat, he wondered what it would be like to taste them. But then a loud, unmistakable moan and a woman’s breathless giggle burst from the phone.
His eyes jerked down. Madonna! He nearly coughed as the screen revealed Matteo Caruso—very naked, very…unimpressive—floundering between two women.
A manicured fingernail tapped the glass sharply. “I just caught him doing this!” Catarina hissed, indignant.
Sal dragged his gaze back up. Her head tilted, those big brown eyes wide, accusatory, almost innocent. “According to this video, sex with Matteo would last…what? Four? Five minutes?” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not very good, is it?”
Sal pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.
“And,” she added, narrowing her eyes at the phone, “he’s not exactly…um… endowed, is he?”
Sal allowed himself a glance. She wasn’t exaggerating.
Not in the slightest. He had to swallow a chuckle, tapping the phone quickly to pause the video.
Taking the phone in his hand, he tapped out his own number.
Then, with a flick of his thumb, he sent the file to his own phone before handing it back politely.
“That’s unfortunate,” he said dryly. His mouth twitched.
“So?”
“So…?” He leaned back, amused at her persistence and not exactly sure what she’d ask him.
“So why are men so obsessed with sex?”
Sal rubbed his hand over his mouth, hiding his grin. She wasn’t joking. She honestly didn’t understand.
“Well, I suppose…” He trailed off, aware of his men at the next table. Tony Mancini, his second, was shaking with silent laughter. His two guards had turned their backs, but their shoulders quaked as well.
“I mean,” Catarina continued, oblivious, “is it just a legacy thing? Is that why men do it more and like it more than women?”
“Some women enjoy it too,” Sal managed, his voice steady despite the laughter threatening to break free.
She snorted, loud and inelegant. “Nope!” Then she leaned across the table, narrowing the space between them, her breath warm and laced with scotch. “Do you know what the best predator in the world is?”
He arched a brow. He could’ve said me—because it was true—but even he knew that might come off as a little too much. Instead, he held her gaze, waiting. The spark in her eyes told him she was about to surprise him again.
And Dio santo, he wanted to know what she’d say next.
“Dragonflies!” she whispered, as if she were revealing classified intelligence. Then she nodded solemnly. “Dragonflies have a ninety-eight percent success rate in trapping their prey.”
Sal bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had leaned across from him at a table and whispered about insect hunting rates like it was state secrets. His men would never let him live this down.
The waitress arrived then, looking far less bold than before. She set down an enormous plate of cheesy pasta and a heaping basket of warm garlic bread, then practically bowed her way out. “I’ll bring the water in a flash, Mr. Romano.” She spun on her four-inch heel and nearly sprinted for the bar.
“Oh, this looks really good,” Catarina sighed, then promptly pushed the plate away. “But I can’t eat this.”
“You’ll eat it,” he told her firmly.
“No,” she countered with the put-upon sigh of a martyr. “It’s too fattening. Too many carbs.” She slid a hand over her flat stomach.
Sal snorted quietly, then pushed the platter back in front of her. “You need to gain at least ten pounds, Catarina. You’re too thin now. Plus, the food will absorb some of that scotch.”
She pondered that comment for a moment, then grinned, lifting the fork like a white flag. “Well, if you’re ordering me to, then I don’t have a choice, do I?”
Sal allowed himself a small smile.
She stabbed at the pasta, twirling it elegantly on her spoon. He couldn’t help approving the motion. A proper Italian woman. Even drunk, she remembered how to eat pasta the right way.
Then she used the fork to point directly at him. “They’re vicious predators, you know.”
He blinked. Who?
Before he could ask, she stabbed a scallop and popped it into her mouth. A low, unrestrained moan escaped her throat, her eyes fluttering closed. Sal’s pulse tripped, his imagination supplying entirely different scenarios in which she might make that sound.
Then her eyes popped open. “Dragonflies!” she clarified. “They’ll pin a female down, inseminate her, then hover over her to make sure she gives birth to his babies.”
Sal’s brows shot up. He wasn’t sure if he was horrified or wildly entertained. “Is that true?”
“Yep.” She nodded matter-of-factly, then scooped up more pasta. Another groan, soft and lingering, made Sal grip his glass harder.
Not that he’d ever find out if she made that same noise in bed. She was off-limits. Absolutely off-limits.
She swallowed and leaned forward. “A rooster will pin down hens too. They can have sex about thirty times every day.”
Sal blinked. Thirty? That was…impressive. He glanced at Tony. His second in command had already pulled out his phone, thumbs flying. Sure enough, a moment later he nudged one of the guards, shoving the screen under his nose. Both men’s eyebrows shot up in admiration.
Sal shook his head, hiding a laugh in his glass. He was good, yes. Legendary even. But thirty times a day? Every day? Roosters deserved medals.
Catarina, oblivious, twirled her pasta with the grace of a duchess. “There’s even non-consensual sex in the plant world,” she added gravely.
Sal nearly choked on his scotch. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Plants,” she said, chewing thoughtfully before setting down her utensils with surprising precision.
She folded her hands neatly in her lap, as though they were at afternoon tea.
“When a gardener doesn’t want cross-pollination of a squash or tomato or whatever, they’ll close up the blossom.
Then the next morning, they swirl the stamen around on the pistil.
” She nodded once, her expression utterly serious. “That’s non-consensual.”
He chuckled. “Well, if that’s the case, then all forms of plant fertilization are non-consensual. The wind and bugs do the fertilizing without consent from the flower.”
She tilted her head, pursing those very kissable lips. Then she nodded solemnly. “You’re right. Nature is an asshole.”
The word slipped out before she realized it. Her gasp was audible as both hands flew to cover her mouth.
Sal stared, stunned. Had this very proper lady just said asshole?
“I did not say that!” she hissed, darting glances around the room. When she confirmed no one else had noticed, she leaned toward him. “Don’t you dare tell anyone I said that word.”
His chuckle betrayed him, and he didn’t miss the way his guards were smirking nearby. “It’ll be our secret.”
“Bulls too,” she blurted.
Sal blinked. “Bulls too…what?”
“They don’t give consent.” She sighed and reached for the bread basket. He watched, riveted, as she chose a piece of cheesy bread, deliberately crumbling it over her remaining pasta. “Could you imagine being the poor guy who has to…you know…strap something on the bull to collect semen?”
Sal nearly choked on his scotch. “What?”
She was laughing now, covering her nose and mouth with one finger while the other hand clutched the bread.
“I can just picture the poor guy in a bar somewhere in Oklahoma, trying to pick up a pretty young thing.” Her giggles spilled out, light and sweet, though usually he found giggling intolerable.
When Catarina did it, it was pure temptation.
She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling wickedly. “She’d ask what he does for a living, and he’d have to admit it. But what would he even call himself?” She tapped her chin, then her grin broke loose. “Oh, I know—he’d be a bull diddler!”
For a moment, Sal could only stare, dumbfounded. Then the absurd image she’d planted in his head hit him full force, and he threw back his head, laughing until his sides hurt. Damn, she was adorable.
When her laughter ebbed, she carefully placed the remaining half of her bread on the plate and dabbed her fingers with the napkin. Her expression softened, but the mischievous glint never quite left her eyes. “That was dreadful of me,” she sighed, clearly anything but remorseful.
Then, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, she added, “By the way, my father honestly hates you.”
“Yes, that’s probably true.”
“And he’s going to make me marry that buffoon.” She gestured to her cell phone, lying innocently on the table.
The thought of her tied to Matteo Caruso made Sal’s blood boil. Rage, sharp and possessive, tore through him. No. Absolutely not. That could never happen.